


The Letter

by KyberHearts_And_StardustSouls



Category: Avengers, Captain America, Marvel
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-15 04:35:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12313839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyberHearts_And_StardustSouls/pseuds/KyberHearts_And_StardustSouls
Summary: You and Bucky have been together for six months, your relationship going great, until you find yourself having to make a choice. Stay or leave.





	The Letter

You sit on the edge of the mattress, legs stretched to the floor. By the sounds coming from the living area of his quarters, he is setting up breakfast for the both of you.  Likely bread, cold cuts, some cucumbers, and tomatoes. Maybe some yogurt. Maybe a hardboiled egg. Definitely coffee. That one, you can smell from one room over.   
   
You smile.   
You love it whenever he sets up breakfast. Especially whenever he makes it just like when he had lived in Romania. Simple but not simplistic. Healthier than what you are used to, living in the States. No heavy feeling once full. No sugar overload.   
   
You sigh, standing up, that smile from a moment ago waning quickly. You pace around your side of the bed, quietly opening the drawer of your nightstand and looking down on the letter that had been sitting in there for the last three days.  
   
You halt for a second, chuckling.  
The thought _//your side of the bed//_ runs tracks in your mind.  
Funny how fast it had become your side of the bed. You've only been together for six months. Known each other not much longer than that. Maybe a week or so longer. Still, it is your side of the bed.    
   
Another second. Another chuckle.  
Your mind recalls the day the two of you had laid eyes on each other for the first time.  
You had just started working at the Avengers compound.   
Medical staff.   
Lab technician.  
At the in-house infirmary.    
   
A large-scale mission had just ended and he had been part of the group.   
Technically, you wouldn’t have been the one helping him but almost everyone on duty had been called to an extreme case rushed to the infirmary; and so you had been asked to help with minor injuries. And the first person assigned to help had been him.  
   
You chuckle again, lost in the memory.  
Those damn blues.   
Those god damn blues.   
They had been the first thing you had seen that fateful day.  
They stood out. Especially with his dark hair. And those long lashes.   
You remember them profiling you; dragging over you as to not miss a single one of your features. And the way they had tracked your every move, too. Especially once your fingertips had reached the cuts on his chest and the bruises on his face.   
   
The statement “eyes up here” had come with a snicker that day. From you. Mainly because one of his glances on your lips had lingered just a little too long, and you seemed to have taken him off guard, considering how fast his eyes had cut to the floor first, then up to follow the light.  
   
“I’m lab tech [Y/L/N] by the way,” you smirked after you caught the quick movement of the eyes.  
“Uhm... Bucky.” He readjusted himself to sit tall, eyes on yours to show you he was paying attention.  
You offered a perched _//what?//_ brow and he reciprocated with an embarrassed chuckle.  
“Uhm... it’s actually James Buchanan Barnes. But friends call me Bucky.”  
“James, hmmm? I like that better than Bucky. It sounds ... nicer... Softer... Kinder.”  
He offered a smile. Red-cheeked.   
   
Satisfied with pupil reaction, you inspected the cuts next. All of it superficial. Nothing that required stitches. Just a good cleaning and maybe some Neosporin, and definitely some much-needed rest. “You’re good to go. Just keep the cuts clean. I don’t think you have a concussion but if you feel dizzy or nauseous at any point, call for someone to get you and to bring you straight back here! Follow up in a few days with the doc.”   
He nodded in agreement, then watched as you typed some notes into his file.  
“See you around, James Buchanan Barnes.” A stretched out hand followed. Your hand.  
   
“Thank you...” A pause from him when he reached for the hand. Your name seemed to have slipped his mind.  
“You forgot my name already. Maybe you do need a scan. Make sure your noggin is working ok.” You laughed softly, him still holding your hand. Surprisingly gentle in the way kept holding it.  
   
“I didn’t forget. Just...” He paused again. With a gulp. “You’re so —  beautiful.”  
“Now I definitely think we need to check your head,” You laughed again and he turned a few more shades of red. “Just teasing, James. It’s lab tech [Y/L/N]. [Y/F/N] [Y/L/N].”  
“[Y/F/N].” He spoke softly.  
“Yup. That’s my name. Don’t wear it out. I need it. Gotta run, James. See you around.”  
  
With that, you had left him sitting on the medical bed, him gawking after you. A week later he had asked you out; red-cheeked, stumbling over his own words, nervous fingers threading through dark hair and coming to a rest at the nape of his neck before he had been able to muster up the courage to look into your eyes.  
  
And now, you stand in the bedroom of his quarters, staring at the letter in the drawer of your nightstand. You sigh, again, joyous memory replaced by saddened present. You take the letter and tuck it into the waistband of your pajama bottoms.   
   
It really is more of a backup, in case you forget what you want to say. The words written out like a rehearsal of what you needed to tell him. And you had needed to rehearse because the things you need to tell him, they will take courage. Not that you ever had trouble talking to him. But this... this is different. This is big. Life changing.  
   
You make it halfway to the door of the bedroom when he walks in. A smile on his face, blues bluer than ever. “Hey, I was just about to check if you’re awake,” he smiles, again.  
And so do you. But clearly, it isn’t enough to hide what has your heart heavy. His face drops to a frown at the sight of yours. “Are you ok? You look a bit pale. Like you had a bad dream.” Bucky worries.   
   
“I’m good. Just hungry,” you fib, ready to move past him to the living area.  
That doesn’t sit well with him. His hand reaches out for yours. He grasps on and stops you in your tracks. “[Y/N], what’s wrong?” A hitched breath from you and you can see the concern etch deep lines into his forehead. “[Y/N], talk to me. What’s wrong?” His voice picks up in pitch. Almost like he is scared.  
   
“We... I mean... I... I need to talk to you. It’s better if we sit down,” you gulp. You free yourself from his hand and pace to the table in the living area, and he follows, brows drawn down sharply with concern.  
   
As predicted, he had set up breakfast just like he used to when he had lived in Romania. Except, he had added some waffles on your plate, with extra whipped cream on the side because lately, that’s what you've been asking for.  
  
A thin smile is all you can offer before your face settles back to a certain heaviness. You take your seat and he takes his, him waiting for you to spill the beans.  
It takes a second. And a nibble on one of the waffles.  
“I love you, James.” You mouse out.   
“I love you, too, [Y/N].” He replies, one hand reaching for yours but you pull back. The shocked but muted gasp doesn’t go past you. Neither does the uneasiness growing behind his blues.  
  
Courage. You need courage.  
Your hand reaches for the letter tucked in the waistband of your pajama bottoms, trembling because courage can’t keep up with the fear building in your stomach.  
Your hand is almost there, hovering over the letter, when the alarm goes off.  
  
Bucky’s head jerks to the door, then he reaches for his cell. “Fuck.”  
“You have to go?” You ask, already knowing the answer.  
“Yes, doll. I’m sorry. Can we move this to later? I promise I’ll make time.” He rushes to put on his gear. Heavy-duty pants, heavy-duty boots, long sleeved shirt. His bulletproof vest and holster next. Knives, glasses, earpiece last.   
  
  
You nod, watching him as he gets ready, a lump catching at the back of your throat, your hand now on the letter.  
He is almost at the threshold towards the hallway when you call out his name.   
But it's not "James".  
Nor Buchanan.  
Not even Barnes.  
But “Bucky, wait.”   
   
He freezes, one foot already out the door. You never call him that. Never!   
He spins around and sees you standing not two feet from him. Pale and head hanging low.   
“Doll. What is it? Tell me!”  
“I... I can’t. Not like this. Not with you rushing off to another mission.”  
“Ok... but... is it... You're not sick, are you? I mean, like dying sick?” He takes a step back. Held breath. Skipped heartbeat.  
You chuckle and shake your head no.  
He reaches for your chin, lifting your head. “I’ll be back before you know it. And then we talk.” He searches for your eyes and when you finally look up, he pulls you in for a kiss; and you - _quickly and unnoticed_ \- slip the letter into the side-pocket of his pants. “I love you, [Y/N].”  
“I love you, too, James.”  
   
“Barnes! Let’s move!” Sam’s voice rips into the room and James’ attention from you.  
Not even a second later you stand alone in his quarters, silent tears rolling down your cheeks. "Goodbye!" comes with a whisper just a fraction of a second after. Held back on purpose because the tone would've held him back even longer. And you never liked holding him back.  
   
   
Bucky plops into his seat, the mission over faster than anticipated, him already cleaning some of his gear because he hates waiting until he gets back to the compound. He reaches into the side-pocket of his pants in search of the small rag he always carries around; the letter you had so hastily slipped in there falling to the ground.  
   
“Dropped something, Barnes,” Sam smirks, quickly reaching for the letter. “Nice handwriting. From your girl, I’m guessing.”  
“Dude... can you just,” Bucky gestures with his hands to give the letter back.  
“James Buchanan //Bucky// Barnes. Damn! She used your whole name and your nickname,” Sam raises a brow.  
“Look here, Birdman...” Bucky nearly growls.  
“Birdman? Bird. Man. Now why didn’t I think of that,” Sam dangles the letter in front of Bucky’s nose.  
   
“Wilson, just hand it back,” Steve cuts in from across.  
“I was just messing. But for real. Your whole name and your nickname. It’s gotta be serious.” Sam finally hands the letter back.  
Bucky traces the letters of his name. He's always loved your handwriting. But Sam is right. Usually, you only write his first name on the envelope. So maybe this is serious.  
   
“Everything alright, Bucky?” Steve’s voice draws Bucky’s attention up, his best friend standing in front now.  
“I’m not sure. She wanted to talk. Right before we had to leave. She seemed... different.”  
“Different how?” Steve sits down in the seat next to Bucky.  
“I don’t know. Sad... anxious maybe... different.”  
   
“I know why,” Natasha mouths over her shoulder from the pilot’s seat.  
“Ah yeah? Care to share,” Sam wiggles his brows.  
“No. But I can tell you this much. When we get back, you had better talk to her, Bucky. And don’t fuck up. I like her.” Natasha quirks a stern brow.  
“What? Why? How would I fuck up? I don’t even know what all this is about.” Bucky’s defenses rev up.  
“Just read the letter,” Natasha points with her chin to Bucky’s hands, then refocuses on the instruments on the dash.  
   
Bucky hitches a breath, finally tearing away the envelope at the glued sections. Another hitched breath before he starts reading.   
Fast fingers trace over every word, eyes widening with each consecutive one. He reads the letter three times. Three times because the words don’t quite process the first time around or the second time.  
But the third read through clicks and he becomes restless fast.  
   
“Nat. How much longer until we’re home?” Bucky’s voice carries impatience.  
“Thirty minutes. Got a bit of a storm ahead.” Natasha points to the sky.  
   
Bucky runs his hand through his hair, his foot tapping nervously at a fast pace against the metal floor of the plane.  
“Everything alright?” Steve asks again.  
“Yes and no.” Bucky stuffs the letter back into the torn envelope and then his pants, rubbing his hand over his thigh to calm his nerves.  
“You wanna talk about it?” Steve squeezes Bucky’s shoulder.   
A shake of the head is the response. “I rather not. Not until I talked to her first.” Bucky gulps, looking out the window.   
   
Thirty minutes.  
Half an hour.  
Usually, he keeps himself busy, so time always flies. But now? Now each minute stretches to felt eternity. And he grows more impatient with each one.  
   
He doesn’t wait for the ramp to fully open once they land, jumping off and dashing past Stark and whatever official and straight towards his quarters.  
“[Y/N]!” He yells with a pant. He looks around.  
Bed made.  
Table cleared.  
Your things gone.  
   
He races up two flights of stairs, skipping three steps each time, to your quarters, pounding against your door once he gets there. “[Y/N]! Please. Please open the door!” He begs. “Please. Please tell me you haven’t left,” he mumbles to himself, head resting against your door. “God. Please. Tell me she hasn’t left.”  
   
The door opens and he stumbles, a sigh of relief when he catches himself.  
You’re still here.  
He hugs you close to himself, then looks over your shoulder, packed suitcases coming into his line of sight, another letter sitting on the desk nearby.  
“Where are you going? I don’t understand. Why are you leaving?” He panics.  
“Didn’t you read my letter?” You pull down a questioning brow, freeing yourself from his embrace and making your way to your suitcases.  
   
“I did. That’s why I don’t understand. I mean... Is it true? Are you sure?” He follows you, a quick once over detailing your body.  
“Yes. Very sure. And that’s why I have to leave.”  
“Why?”   
You turn towards him, palming his face and thumbing his cheeks. “Because it’ll be easier that way. Your mind will be clear. You’ll be able to focus on your missions. You wouldn’t have to do a thing. Worry about a thing.”  
“You walking away won’t make me not worry. If anything it’ll make it worse. I want to be there. I should be there.”  
   
“And how will we make this work, James? Tell me. How are we going to do this?” Your voice laces with some annoyance because he doesn't seem to want to understand that you walking away will make his life so much easier.  
“I don’t know,” Bucky runs his hand through his hair. Again and again and again. “I don’t know, but Clint has made it work somehow. If he can, so can we.”  
   
“James...” you hang your head, taking a step back.  
“[Y/N]. Don’t do this. Don’t walk away. Not if it’s just about protecting me or making things easier for me.”  
“James...” you repeat with a whisper.  
He folds his hands over yours and pulls them to his chest. “[Y/N]... please. We’ll make it work. We can move to a little apartment in the city. Or a house near here. Clint lives close by. I bet we can ask him for help. I’ll talk to Stark. Reduce my status to non-essential missions for time being. Anything... anything...”   
“Why?” You whisper.   
“Because... I love you. Us.”  
   
Damn it. You knew he would say that. “But... the Avengers.” You shake your head.   
“The Avengers will always be here, doll. But they... no... this job, it’s not important. Not when it comes to this.”  
“Are you sure? I mean... this... it’s going to change everything.”  
“I know.”  
“I’m going to change.”  
“I know.”  
“It’s not going to be easy.”  
“I know. And that’s why I want to be there. Because I know, this isn’t going to be easy. Especially if you had really planned on doing this by yourself.”  
“James...” you whisper, yet again.  
“Doll. Let me take care of you.” Bucky drops to his knees, arms slipping around your waist. “Take care of us.” He kisses your tummy. “And maybe, if this works out ok, we’ll have more,” he looks up, tears edging to the corners of his eyes. "Please, [Y/N]." He gently presses his face into your tummy, kissing it over and over again, then looks back up, waiting.  
   
You husk out a disbelieving chuckle. Why does he have to be like that? Not that you ever doubted that he would just let you walk away. But why? You've only been together for six months. This is a big commitment. Long-term. Longer than six months.  
   
You squeeze your eyes shut for a moment. Thinking, then laughing. “Let’s ... let’s wait and see how we’ll deal with this one. Considering all the demands already.”  
“The waffles?” Bucky’s eyes widen in amusement.  
“The waffles.” You laugh softly.  
   
Bucky snickers, kissing your tummy again. “Don’t worry. I make sure mommy feeds you waffles every day,” he whispers and you run your hands through his hair, letting him mumble promises of things to come; letting it all sink in.   
You and Bucky.  
No!  
You and James!  
The longest mission yet to come.  
The most difficult you will ever face.  
You and James: parents to be. 


End file.
